


when this kingdom comes

by heartofstanding



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Deathbed Vigils, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Henry V is a high functioning disaster, Identity Issues, M/M, Past Character Death, Self-Esteem Issues, Submission, Terminal Illnesses, self hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Henry IV is dying, Hal isn't ready to be king.
Relationships: Henry IV of England & Henry V of England, Henry V of England & Humphrey of Lancaster Duke of Gloucester, Richard Courtenay (?-1415)/Henry V of England
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	when this kingdom comes

**Author's Note:**

> There are stories of Henry and Hal having a reconciliation as Henry laid on his deathbed. This isn't that story. 
> 
> If you want to avoid the sex scene, it starts at "His fingers squeezed around Courtenay’s shoulders..." and goes until the scene break.
> 
> Historical notes are at the end.

**Greenwich, February 1413**

Courtenay was doing that trick of his, pretending to be engrossed in some internal debate over the book he was reading when he was really thinking furiously about something entirely different. Hal wanted to ask what it was but didn’t because he knew that question would be turned back on him like a knife. Besides, he knew what Courtenay would say. _You. The long watches you spend at your father’s side, waiting for him to die. Your silence and your distance._ To ask and to be answered would mean Hal would have to explain and he was not ready to explain.

He left Courtenay to stare at his book and went to his father.

Henry was dying. He’d been ill for years but now, everyone was reasonably sure, he was actually dying. There would be no more of Henry clawing his way back to health, dragging himself to the throne to look at Hal’s work with half-slitted, puffy eyes and demand answers. There would be no one left to tell Hal what to do, no one to tell Hal what he had done wrong and how, exactly, it would be fixed. There’d be no one who would stare at Hal as if a ghost was speaking through his mouth and no one to tell him how he’d been a bad ruler and a worse son. There would be no one left who remembered, clearly, how his mother’s harp had sounded when she played it or her half-finished _Sanctus._

It was exhilarating. It was terrifying.

And when Henry was gone, Hal would be king. He would be the one blessed with the sacred balm, he would be the one to right Henry’s wrongs and forge England in a new manner. They would forget the sins of the past, look to the glories of the future. Hal did not want to be king but there was no way of avoiding it except by dying himself and he didn’t want to die.

 _Richard,_ he thought and remembered the dream he had had when he was sixteen and delirious with pain. The old king standing over him, watching, and saying, _you were made to endure this._ Only sometimes it seemed as though Richard had said _you weren’t made to endure this._

*

Hal sent Humphrey away and took his seat by Henry’s side. He didn’t say anything. They had already said all they would say to each other. Yes, it was a pity Thomas was in France. Yes, it was a pity that Henry didn’t make it to Jerusalem again. The taste of his father’s apologies and regrets spurred on by the spectre of death was both bitter and familiar and it wasn’t enough. Henry was sorry for everything and nothing, making excuses for himself with what feeble breath he had left.

Hal stared his father’s slack face and imagined leaning in, whispering into the shell of his ear, _you killed everyone I ever loved._ But Henry would deny it, shake his head and make more excuses.

Henry’s eyes slit open and he turned his head, looking first for Joanna and then Humphrey before turning to Hal. His mouth puckered.

‘The queen is praying in the chapel, your grace,’ Hal said. ‘And Humphrey has gone for some air.’

Henry’s head inclined in a nod, his hands plucking at the blankets covering him. Hal bent his neck, studied his knees. He hated this. There was nowhere else he could go, nowhere he should be but there and yet Henry didn’t want him.

‘Harry,’ Henry said. ‘Harry.’

‘I’m here, Father,’ Hal said. ‘Thomas in France and John in the north. I won’t send for Humphrey, he was here all morning.’

Henry’s eyes drifted shut. Harry shifted in his seat, wondered when he would feel like he could breathe again.

‘Shall we pray?’ he said. ‘Have you got your beads?’

Henry’s head moved restlessly. Hal went looking and couldn’t find them, though he found the table laden with bottles and jars of foul-smelling ointments and potions. He gave Henry his own paternoster beads, bent his head and began to recite the prayers. Henry seemed to follow or at least the beads rolled between his fingers.

Before he had finished the second prayer, the door was opening and Archbishop Arundel was there. He stopped and waited for Hal to finish and then he was moving forward, bowing over Henry’s hand to kiss it.

‘Your grace,’ Arundel whispered.

‘Harry,’ Henry said. ‘Go away.’

Hal leant back in his seat. Of course. What else should he expect? He said nothing pushed himself up and left. He thought, as the door shut behind him, he heard Henry’s voice raised, calling after him, but he was sure he was mistaken.

*

Courtenay was actually reading when Hal returned to his room and Hal wondered if it would be better if Courtenay was somewhere else. In the garden, eating almonds. At Oxford. In France with Thomas and York. But he was there, in Hal’s room, and some craven part of Hal wanted to crawl into his arms and curl up.

‘Arundel’s with Father,’ he said instead. ‘So I was sent away.’ He frowned. ‘I am _his_ son, his eldest son and heir, and he loves Arundel more than me.’

‘Maybe you just smell,’ Courtenay said, turning a page.

Hal’s lips split into a grin. ‘Or my ugly face gives him nightmares.’

‘Maybe,’ Courtenay said. He looked up from his book. ‘You’re not ugly.’

‘No?’ Hal arched a brow. ‘You haven’t put that book down yet.’

Courtenay laughed and set down his book. He crossed the room, caught Hal’s face between his palms and kissed his brow and then his lips. Hal shuddered. It was too affectionate and he wanted to scream, wanted to claw his skin from his flesh because he did not deserve this and yet there was nothing else he wanted more. He rested his forehead against Courtenay’s shoulder and Courtenay held him tight.

‘He’s in a bad way, then,’ Courtenay said. ‘Take time away – come hunting.’

‘And hear his complaints when I return?’ Hal said. ‘“I’m dying and you go off to please yourself” – as if he even wants to see me!’

‘Hal,’ Courtenay whispered.

‘He asked me where Thomas was yesterday and when I said France, he gave me such a look as if he dearly wished our places were exchanged. As though it was me who sent Thomas to France, not him! He’s always loved Thomas best and now – now he grieves because I am here and Thomas isn’t, and blames me for all of it.’

‘Hal.’

He shook his head and pushed away from Courtenay, paced by the window. Courtenay hovered as if he sensed the chasm Hal was digging between them and couldn’t find a way across it.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ Hal said after a long silence. ‘I didn’t want to vomit my frustrations all over you.’

‘It’s alright. I understand – it’s a hard time.’

‘It’ll get worse. God, I can’t—’

Hal broke off and braced himself against the window, the glass cold beneath his palms. He felt something foul at the back of his throat, burning all the way into his belly and weighing it with stones. He couldn’t do this. He felt as though he was an animal, trapped in a snare and thrashing desperately while steel jaws dug deeper wounds into him.

‘Here,’ Courtenay said.

He pressed a cup of wine into Hal’s hand and watched until Hal drank it all. Then he took Hal’s arm, made him lie down on the bed and held him tight. Hal rested his head on Courtenay’s chest and told himself just to feel. The steady beat of Courtenay’s heart, the slow, careful movement of Courtenay’s hand through his hair. He wanted this. He wanted this to go on, forever, but it wouldn’t – he would make sure of it. Hal swallowed around the grief lodged in his throat, felt tears seeping out from under his closed lids.

‘Hal…’

‘I’m fine.’

He wasn’t and it was obvious but all Courtenay said was, ‘I know.’

‘It’s just – it’s a bad time.’

‘Yes.’

Hal opened his eyes. ‘I love you. I do. I love you so much.’

‘I know that too.’

Hal smiled. ‘I think, sometimes, that I don’t deserve you. That I’m too lucky for this to last.’

‘I’m not planning on going anywhere.’

Hal lifted his head and smiled at Courtenay but without joy or hope. He pulled himself level with Courtenay and kissed him, his hands moving to hold Courtenay’s shoulders. He pushed Courtenay down against the mattress and kissed him a second time. Then he pulled back.

‘I will be king before the year is out.’

Courtenay said nothing but he knew, Hal could see it in his eyes. It was not dramatics or grief or excitement. It was a simple fact that no one could deny and no one could comfort him over. Courtenay’s hand traced the stretch of Hal’s shaven nape.

‘I am not ready to be king.’

‘I’m sorry.’

It was too much. He didn’t want to keep talking. Hal shook his head and kissed Courtenay again. His lips were wet with tears, the kiss too biting.

His fingers squeezed around Courtenay’s shoulders, came up to rest against Courtenay’s cheek. Courtenay wrapped his arms around Hal, drew him close. He returned the kiss, tried to gentle Hal but he would not be gentled. He straddled Courtenay, pressed his buttocks against Courtenay’s groin and made some kind of desperate croon. He was still crying in earnest, his face wet. Courtenay reached out, grasped his face and made him be still.

‘Richard—’

‘I don’t—’

 _Don’t what?_ Hal wondered. _Don’t want me?_ Hal was not unfamiliar with the concept but he doubted Courtenay would ever say that.

‘I want you to make me forget,’ Hal said, his face naked and desperate. ‘Just for an hour. No one will be looking for me.’

Courtenay knew what he was asking. They had played this game before – control would be taken, Hal would be reduced to a body begging. But Courtenay seemed hesitant, pushing himself up and wrapping his arms around Hal. It was too gentle, too much like love. Hal sniffed, scrubbed his hand across his wet cheeks.

‘Please,’ he said, aware he was entreating Courtenay as if for a pardon.

‘You’re crying,’ Courtenay said.

‘What does that matter?’

Hal gave up on drying his cheeks.

‘If you’re going to cry, at least have the decency to cry because you can’t cope with how good I am in bed,’ Courtenay said.

Hal stared at him and then snorted miserably. Then he pitched forward, nestling his face against Courtenay’s neck. ‘You’re not exactly inspiring material right now.’

‘Neither are you.’

‘At least I’m trying.’

‘By crying?’ Courtenay said, obviously regretting it the moment it was out of his mouth. ‘I don’t have to try, I’m the _Flower of Devon_ , remember?’

Hal snorted again. ‘Pretty as a petal, you are. _Please,_ Richard.’

Courtenay looked like he wanted to shake Hal but instead he held Hal’s face and kissed him until he was breathless. Hal’s back hit the mattress and Courtenay’s hand slid over his chest, rucking up his houppelande to push his hand inside Hal’s braies. Hal bit the inside of his cheek hard as Courtenay’s warm hand cupped his cock. He shuddered despite himself, feeling Courtenay’s eyes on his face as his cock stiffened.

‘Let me check the door,’ Courtenay said and kissed Hal’s neck as he stood.

‘You miserable—’

Hal fumbled, found a pillow and threw it at Courtenay. Courtenay ducked and it went skidding on the floor. At the door, Courtenay glanced over his shoulder, his eyes mischievous and deep with promise.

‘You should get naked, too,’ he said.

Hal hurled a second pillow at Courtenay. It hit the door with a satisfying thump but Courtenay was unscathed, bolting the door and checking the lock. Careful to avoid looking at Hal, he tossed the pillow back and went to one of the chests, sorting through it. Hal scowled and undressed himself.

‘And get on your knees,’ Courtenay said, still without looking. ‘Hands behind your back.’

Hal knelt and waited. Courtenay came to him, laid his hand against Hal’s cheek and pressed his thumb to Hal’s mouth. Obediently, trustingly, Hal parted his lips and took the tip of Courtenay’s thumb inside his mouth.

‘Should I bind you?’

Hal shook his head. He could feel a flush working up his chest, heat blazing across his face. His cock throbbed. Courtenay stripped himself in quick, efficient movements.

‘Please,’ Hal broke out. ‘Don’t tease me.’

‘I’m not teasing,’ Courtenay said. ‘Only appreciating.’

He circled Hal, bent to kiss him. His hands were cool against Hal’s hot cheeks and Hal leant in them, trying to follow when Courtenay stepped back and straightened. Hal’s knees spread wider, his body opening for Courtenay. Courtenay stood in front of him, his hand working over his cock.

‘You know I want,’ Courtenay said, his free hand moving to cup the back of Hal’s skull, urging him forward. ‘Do it.’

Hal craned his neck, his hands grasping each other behind his back, and felt the startingly heat of Courtenay’s cock as it brushed against his cheek, precome smearing across his skin. He managed, after a few awkward moments, to get his mouth around Courtenay’s cock, his eyes fluttering closed at the weight against his tongue. Courtenay’s hands moved, one slid down Hal’s head to rest against the back of his neck, heavy and comforting, while the other settled on Hal’s shoulders. The fingers flexed, a silent order.

Hal obeyed, nails digging into his arms. He took more and more of Courtenay’s cock into his mouth, raising his head to look up at Courtenay’s face. It was dark with desire and beautiful, his eyes open to meet Hal’s. His hips moved in small thrusts, pushing his cock deeper and Hal could only take it, aware of the weight of Courtenay’s hand on his neck, keeping him in place. He stared up at Courtenay, his eyes watering, refusing to let himself look away.

‘How long?’ Courtenay said. ‘How long should I keep you here, on your knees, my cock in your mouth?’

Hal whimpered. He knew Courtenay would let him go the moment he signalled but he didn’t want it to stop. He wanted to say, _forever_ , _keep me here forever,_ but he could not and would not. Courtenay’s fingers flexed again, his hips inched back – a warning. Hal sucked in a deep breath and then Courtenay’s hand clamped around his neck, held him still as his hips pushed forward, forcing his cock down Hal’s throat. Hal felt a hot tear seep down his cheek, his throat spasming.

Then Courtenay stepped back and drew his cock out. Hal could breathe again, taking deep, gasping breaths. He ducked his head, trying to dry his eyes against his shoulder, and whined unhappily, fingers twisting together.

‘It’s alright,’ Courtenay said breathlessly, face flushed.

He took Hal by the elbow, pulled him to his feet and sat him on the edge of the bed. His hand cupped the red, stiff flesh of Hal’s prick, pulled at it.

‘Just feel, alright?’

Hal shook his head but he could feel his body responding, the exquisiteness of the rough drag of Courtenay’s hand against his prick, his balls tight. He hid his burning face against Courtenay’s shoulder, sobbed as he felt the pleasure build. Courtenay took his hand away, cupped Hal’s cheek.

‘You’re still with me?’

Hal nodded. ‘Always.’

‘And if you need it to stop?’

‘I remember the signal,’ he said.

Courtenay grinned and kissed his forehead. ‘Get up, bend over the end of the bed.’

Hal did as he was told, positioning himself on the edge of the bed, his legs spread and cock heavy and hard. He took a deep breath, rested his cheek against the covers. Courtenay stepped between his thighs, ran a hand slick with oil down Hal’s back before it rested against the curve of his arse, the longest finger slipping between his cheeks to press against his hole. Hal braced himself, toes curling and still cried out when Courtenay pushed his finger inside him.

‘Shh,’ Courtenay said.

He thrust his finger in and out, made Hal chase after the sensation of being filled, before pushing a second finger inside him. Hal grunted, holding himself still. Courtenay’s fingers withdrew and then returned, massaging more oil into Hal’s hole before sliding in again.

‘Alright?’ Courtenay said.

Hal choked out a yes, pushed back against Courtenay’s hand. He was fucked slowly until he was squirming and twitching, sweat all over his body and cock leaking steadily. His face was hot and his hands clawed the covers.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please.’

‘Alright,’ Courtenay said.

Abruptly, his fingers were gone and Hal cried out at the shock of it. But soon Courtenay was lifting his hips, pulling him up and back until his cock breached Hal. He stopped, added more oil and, with one hard thrust, buried himself. Hal cried out again, scrambling against the mattress. Who knew, he thought blearily, that the shock of being full was worse than the shock of being empty?

One of Courtenay’s hands grasped Hal’s hip, held him steady and still, and the other held Hal’s shoulder. Hal breathed in, felt himself trembling minutely. His cock was painfully hard, the skin stretched tightly over rigid flesh.

‘Do you need me to stop?’ Courtenay said.

Hal shook his head wildly.

‘Good,’ Courtenay said.

He laid himself over Hal’s back, pressed kisses to Hal’s shoulders, neck and face as far as he could reach. His hips moved in slow circles against Hal’s arse. It was almost, Hal thought, as if I am a bitch being bred. He didn’t like the thought, tried to chase it away by turning his head until he found Courtenay’s face and kissed it.

‘Don’t hit me,’ Courtenay said and pulled out.

Hal’s arms braced, wanting to push himself up to confront Courtenay. What? They were doing this, weren’t they? Hal hadn’t signalled, hadn’t wanted it to stop.

‘What—?’

Courtenay’s hands took hold of his hips, urged him onto his back, and then he was lifting Hal’s legs, bending him double and thrusting inside hard enough that Hal’s breath was knocked from his lungs in a cry. Courtenay’s eyes met his, deep with knowledge, and he cupped Hal’s face, kissed him.

‘I wanted to see your face,’ he said.

‘Why?’

Courtenay shook his head and kissed him again, teasing open Hal’s mouth with his tongue before pushing inside. His hips began to move – a series of slow, deep thrusts that made Hal’s fingers and toes curl. It was a pleasure that was unhurried and thorough, claiming Hal in a way that would gradually drive him out of himself.

‘Because it’s your face,’ Courtenay said, drawing back.

‘You’re very strange,’ Hal said.

Courtenay snorted and kissed him, his mouth slipping from Hal’s lips to suck at his neck, teeth just grazing the skin.

‘Incurably so,’ Courtenay said and he didn’t have the right to sound so stupidly besotted with Hal.

Hal bared his teeth at him and Courtenay only laughed. One hand moved to anchor itself against Hal’s shoulder, the other gripped Hal’s thigh. He began to fuck Hal, thrusting hard enough into his body that his hipbones slapped against Hal’s arse and Hal went skidding on the covers, his hands trying to brace himself by clutching at the bedding before they clung to Courtenay instead. Hal’s mouth was open, his breath sobbing as he let himself feel everything. The freedom and the pleasure in the brutality of the act, his hole stretched tight around Courtenay’s cock, his body aflame, nipples hard and balls drawn up tight.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please. I can’t – it’s so much.’

‘Then come,’ Courtenay said. ‘Touch yourself.’

Hal unclamped one hand from Courtenay’s arm and held his cock. He couldn’t think, couldn’t even tell his hand to stroke himself. It was terrible and perfect, the pleasure moving in him, claiming his mind. Courtenay’s hand covered his, drew it up over his cock and Hal cried out – he was so hard that it hurt. Courtenay kissed his face, dragged their hands along Hal’s rigid length, thumb rubbing against the head wet with pre-ejaculate. Hal sobbed, his foot kicking out unconsciously.

‘Come on,’ Courtenay muttered. ‘Come on.’

‘Please, please,’ Hal babbled. ‘Please, I can’t – please.’

Courtenay gathered him close and fucked him harder. Hal’s eyes snapped open, staring at Courtenay’s face, red and sweaty with his efforts, twisted with pleasure. Hal clung to him, felt both their hands working over his cock. It was almost enough. Almost. Courtenay’s mouth slipped down, bit at Hal’s chest. Hal made a sound like a hiccup or a sob and finally, _finally,_ came.

He laid there, stunned, as Courtenay withdrew from his trembling body. He could hear the sound of Courtenay masturbating, the slick sound of his hand working his cock, the quiet moans he made. Hal lifted his hand, stared at the ejaculate streaked over his fingers, his eyes heavy and wet.

Courtenay came over Hal’s heaving belly and toppled down beside Hal. He held Hal and Hal clung to him, hiding his face in Courtenay’s neck as he began to sob loudly. Courtenay didn’t try to quieten him, didn’t ask him why he was crying which Hal found a relief. He did not want to dissect his feelings, did not want to explain and be pressed for answers and solutions.

When Hal had finished crying, Courtenay held him a little longer, then washed him and put him to bed. Courtenay laid down beside him, stroked his hair and told him to sleep.

*

Hal woke in the night, the world outside his room was dark. The hangings of his bed had not been drawn and Courtenay was sitting at the desk, making notes onto a wax tablet. Hal sat up, felt cold and pulled a blanket from the bed to wrap around his shoulders.

‘Why did you let me sleep?’

‘You needed it,’ Courtenay said without turning. ‘And no one came seeking you.’

‘But—’

Hal frowned. He was the heir, the Prince of Wales – surely someone would have wanted to speak him? He could accept that his father, having sent him away, hadn’t cared enough to ask for Hal’s return but surely Joanna or Humphrey would have summoned him back?

‘Sorry,’ Courtenay said. ‘No one urgently sought you. There something about a dog and tomorrow’s dinner and I said they could wait. Your father is sleeping – I sent a messenger.’

Hal closed his eyes. ‘So what am I supposed to do?’

Courtenay turned to face him. ‘Get dressed. We’ll go outside and walk in the courtyard.’

‘Outside? It’s freezing. And dark.’

Courtenay arched a brow. ‘It’ll be good for you.’

*

Hal was right and Courtenay was right. It was dark and freezing outside but the wind was fast enough that Hal felt it smack into his face and push the hood back from his face. He stood still and let it rush at him. If he was the weight of a feather, he would be gone. Blown out to sea and lost. It was a comforting thought. He stood there, hearing the trees he could barely see bend and break in the gale.

‘I will be like my father, someday,’ he told Courtenay. ‘Lying in a bed, barely able to move or speak or breathe. I will die, someday.’

‘We all will,’ Courtenay said. ‘But not you and me for a long time yet, God willing.’

Hal stared towards the sky, the clouds scurrying across the field of stars. He remembered his mother, long ago, telling him that the stars were placed in the sky to show even in darkness they were not abandoned by God and that night did not have to been feared. He was not alone – he could reach out and touch Courtenay and Humphrey was inside, ready to cling to him the moment he showed his face. But he was afraid.

‘I don’t want to die,’ he said.

‘No,’ Courtenay said.

Hal nodded. He felt it on the tip of his tongue, burning a line from his mouth to his bowels. _I am going to die soon._ Courtenay would laugh at him and call him ridiculous – he was not ill, he was not injured. He was in peak condition, on the verge of leaving behind his childish self and becoming a man and a king. It was a kind of death, it was a kind of murder but not a physical one.

‘I don’t, either,’ Courtenay said. ‘There’s too much of life left, too much of the world – more books to read, more journeys to make.’

‘When I was eight,’ Hal said. ‘I was very sick. They hired doctors and surgeons who bled me and gave me medicines to drink. I tipped them into my chamber pot.’

Courtenay turned to face him. ‘I suppose they tasted foul.’

‘I didn’t taste them,’ Hal said. ‘My mother had just died and I wanted her back but since that was impossible, I thought I’d join her.’

‘You’ve always been quite dramatic, haven’t you?’ Courtenay said.

‘Probably,’ Hal said and grinned. ‘I was eight and mad with grief. They sent me off to live with my grandfather.’

‘That explains a lot.’

‘He wasn’t quite so bad in the end,’ Hal said. ‘And he left me alone. No one noticed me not taking my medicines until Grandmother arrived. She watched me for a day and told me that I could either die or I could make my life a testament to my mother.’ Hal bit his lip. ‘I haven’t really done it, though, have I? No one will remember her.’

Courtenay’s hand rested on Hal’s shoulder.

‘I was a sweet child,’ Hal said. ‘Eager to please, generous and kind. I got that from her. She called me her sweet boy, her clever boy. She wouldn’t – wouldn’t recognise me now.’

He raised his sleeve to his eyes but they were dry. What was so fundamentally wrong with him that he couldn’t even cry over his dead mother and how he’d failed her?

‘She wouldn’t expect you to be the same,’ Courtenay said. ‘You were seven when she died. She’d know you’d have changed and she’d understand why. She wouldn’t love you any less.’

Hal knew. His mother had a core of kindness and love inside her. Whatever the faults and sins that made up his character, she would still love him. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t grieve to see him so changed and not for the better.

The night was growing colder, the air around them like ice. Hal tilted his head back, stared up at the stars. He was caught in an unchanging rhythm. They would go inside and eat. They would sit by the fire and talk or play at chess. He would go to bed and sleep, rise in the dawn and hear three masses and then take his place at his father’s side and wait for Henry to die.

Then he would throw off Henry’s shackles and feel the noose slipping around his neck as the crown was placed on his head.

*

Hal sat and watched his father dying. Joanna was on the other side of the bed, reading her psalter and mouthing the prayers. Again, Hal felt the urge to lean in and whisper to Henry, _you killed everyone I ever loved._ But it wasn’t really true and Henry’s sins were eating his body whole, punishment enough. Hal shifted in his seat, bit his palm and wondered what form of punishment his own sins would inflict on him in time.

‘He loves you, you know,’ Joanna said, voice quiet. She had set down her psalter and was staring at him with earnest eyes.

Hal shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Joanna’s eyes flicked from his face to Henry’s. She reached out and laid her hand over Henry’s swollen hand.

‘Doesn’t it?’ Joanna said. ‘Why are you here, then?’

Hal sucked at his teeth, pushed down anger. ‘Where else should I be, your grace?’

Joanna shrugged.

‘I tried all my life to be good enough for him,’ Hal said. ‘And always failed. I was never – the only thing he ever thought I did well was resemble my mother but then he decided that was a weakness too. She was a woman, I was a boy and she would’ve been a terrible king.’

‘He talks about you a lot,’ Joanna said. ‘If you don’t make peace with him, you will regret it forever.’

‘Will I?’ Hal said. ‘Another sin for me to carry around? What makes you think he even wants peace with me?’

‘He was upset you quarrelled yesterday.’

‘We didn’t _quarrel_ ,’ Hal said. ‘I came, we prayed and then he sent me away so I left without a word. Did he say otherwise?’

By the shading in Joanna’s eyes, he learnt Henry hadn’t even mentioned it and Joanna had assumed that there had been a quarrel and assumed it must have been Hal’s fault.

‘He is a sick man,’ Joanna said. ‘You shouldn’t take to heart the things he does.’

Hal closed his eyes. He didn’t want to fight with Joanna. He didn’t want to listen to her excuse and defend Henry. She hadn’t known, she hadn’t seen – he wanted, with fresh fierceness, his mother who had told him that it was alright that he didn’t miss his father when he went away and who had hugged him and assured him of _her_ love. Not Joanna who saw only the lack in him.

‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘But it is a habit of mine, begun at birth, taking my father’s cruelties to heart.’

Joanna looked discomfited. She stroked her fingers over Henry’s knuckles and Hal stood. He poured himself a cup of wine, drank it, and poured another for Joanna. He passed it to her and sat back down.

‘Perhaps you remind him too much of himself,’ Joanna said.

Hal wanted to laugh. He wanted to vomit.

‘Are you saying that he despises me because he sees the worst parts of him reflected in me and, worse, I wear my mother’s face so not only am I all his worst flaws, I commit the sin of sullying her memory through my very existence?’ he said. ‘An interesting theory. I’ve always believed that whatever pieces of Mother and him I carry around aren’t enough to balance out the defects in me that he so clearly perceives.’

Joanna was staring at him. ‘Why you are here, then, you hate him?’

‘I didn’t say I hated him,’ Hal said. ‘I said he hated me.’

‘You believe that?’

‘He has never given me cause to doubt it,’ Hal said.

He suddenly felt sick. He had said too much, revealed too much of himself – it had to be a form of madness. He leant forward, scrubbed his hands over his face. The air smelt bitter and thick. His father’s breath rasped unchangingly. He needed to get out, he needed an excuse to leave or else Joanna would think he was fleeing from her.

The door creaked open and Humphrey was there, glancing nervously at the bed. He looked better than he had yesterday, no longer quite so pale. There were no spare chairs left, except the settle positioned near the fire so Hal stood up.

‘He’s sleeping,’ Hal said. ‘Take my seat. I need some air.’

‘Harry,’ Joanna said.

Hal ignored her, clapping Humphrey on the back and promising to return later – though that was more Humphrey’s sake than his own. He had made a vigil by his dying father’s bedside as duty demanded and he had earned nothing but reproof from Joanna about failing his father.

*

He could feel himself shaking as he left, the urge to vomit itching in his throat. He had said too much, hadn’t even realised his mask of filial duty was cracking until he heard the words come crawling out of his throat. He pressed himself flat against the wall, forced himself to think of nothing but his breath until his heart no longer seemed to be battering its way out of his chest and the urge to vomit faded.

It, of course, could have been worse. Joanna didn’t hate him, for some odd reason, and she meant well – her dying husband wanted something so she was trying to give it to him. She hadn’t been there to know the entire length and breadth of Hal’s relationship with Henry. She might tell Henry what Hal had said but Hal doubted it – it would be too distressing for Henry to bear and, anyway, he would never believe it. Would never accept that something was his own fault. No, the worst that would happen was that she would try and talk about it with him again. Tell him that he was wrong, that his father loved him, had always loved him.

Hal pushed himself off the wall. He needed Courtenay. He would accept the comfort Courtenay was desperate to give him like balm on a wound.

*

Courtenay wasn’t in Hal’s room. Hal shouldn’t have expected otherwise – it wasn’t as if Courtenay was confined to the room – but he still felt a deep and irrational feeling of betrayal. It wasn’t _fair._ He needed Courtenay and had no clear idea of where he might be, did not want to go searching because he wasn’t sure where to start and to look fruitlessly for Courtenay would make him feel desperate.

He laid on the bed and stared up at the canopy, tracing the embroidered swans with his eyes. He wondered when, if ever, he would feel normal again. He wondered if he ever had been normal – Courtenay called him _quite_ dramatic and his mother had told him once that he suffered from fits of melancholia.

As a child, he had used to think that life would be better without Henry. When Henry went away, there had been no shadow to loom over Hal and his days had seemed simpler and sunnier. There had been no one to find faults with him, no one to see his flaws and illuminate them. Hal had been able to simply _be_. He hadn’t cared who or what he was, he was simply himself and that was enough for everyone.

He raised his hands, pressed them to his face and pulled at its flesh, moving it around. What was he? There were words he could use – son, brother, heir, prince, duke, grandson, traitor, cousin, friend, lover, sodomite, enemy, melancholic, future-king, motherless, soldier, usurper, disfigured, guilty, ugly, sinner – but they were just words. Even put together, they said nothing about him that meant something. At the centre of himself there was a person, a soul, or there was supposed to be, and he could not sense anything of it.

His face hurt. He lowered his hands and made himself study the swans. It seemed, sometimes, that there was a mistake in the world. He was not meant to be alive – he had been meant to die at Shrewsbury or at birth or at age eight or in place of his mother – and Henry alone had perceived this error and treated him accordingly. Perhaps that was the fault in him, that he was alive when he should be dead. But for all that, he didn’t want to die.

*

When Hal went back to his father, it was because there was nothing else he could do and he had already spent enough time away that to stay away any longer would look like negligence or cowardliness. The air was thick with smoke and stunk of burnt herbs and ointment. It reminded Hal of going to see his grandfather just before his death. Joanna had gone but Humphrey was still there, looking like he was about to fall asleep in the chair though he brightened when he saw Hal.

‘How is he?’

Humphrey shrugged, his face miserable. Bad, then. Humphrey would know – he’d been the only one, besides Joanna, who’d been with Henry since the illness had first begun. He knew what Henry was like when things were bad and knew what recovery looked like.

‘Alright,’ Hal said. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You’re not sick too, are you?’

‘No,’ Humphrey said. ‘Can we talk?’

‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’

‘I mean, away from—’

Humphrey jerked his head towards their father. Hal stared at Henry, the scabbed, swollen hands clutching the sheets to his chest as if they were a shield, the red-rimmed eyes shut in sleep. He wasn’t sure if the sight of Henry’s suffering disgusted him or moved him to pity.

‘By the window?’ Hal suggested. The air would easier to breathe and if Henry woke, they would still be close by.

They went to the window. The glass blocked out the worst of the cold air but it was like ice to touch and a welcome change from the suffocating air near Henry’s bed. Hal waited.

‘I just – I don’t know,’ Humphrey said.

He was staring outside, at the grey skies and the dead trees still and quiet. Hal felt a burst of impatience, made himself be still. He had always been the one Humphrey went to when he was upset or sick, had always been the one who was able to comfort him when no one else could. Hal reached out and touched his shoulder, squeezed it.

‘Do you think it’s a… sin,’ Humphrey said slowly, ‘to see someone suffering and wanting it to stop, whatever it takes?’

‘No,’ Hal said.

‘He – he had one of his fits earlier,’ Humphrey said. ‘And all I did was sit there and pray that this was it. That it’d be over. I kept thinking, _please don’t let him start breathing_ over and over again. And when he did, I was just – angry.’

He turned dark eyes up to Hal, the thick lashes fringed with tears.

‘What kind of son am I to pray for that? To be angry that he wasn’t dead? To want him to—?’

Humphrey let out a sob and turned away from Hal, head ducking down. Hal pulled Humphrey to him, held him tightly. He tried to jerk back but Hal wouldn’t let him.

‘Don’t,’ Hal said. ‘Don’t. Just listen, alright? You’re not a bad son. You’re not. You’ve seen – more than I have, more than anyone else has – how bad it is for him.’

‘I shouldn’t want him to—’

‘You don’t,’ Hal said firmly. ‘You want him to be well again, for things to be as they were before. But it’s impossible and you know that. He’s not going to get better. So you want him out of pain and death – death is the only way that’s going to happen.’

Humphrey sniffled against Hal’s shoulder, his face wet and cold. Hal rubbed his back and felt annoyed. At Humphrey, that he should be so needy and unable to cope with or understand his own emotions. At Henry, that he should die in such a terrible, lingering way and had left Humphrey to witness it all. It would have helped matters immensely if Henry had allowed Humphrey to have some measure of both independence and responsibility instead of having Humphrey trailing after him throughout his adolescence and into adulthood. He was four years younger than Hal, only a year younger than John, and he had never known what it was to lead or to fight. It wasn’t really his fault, they had all spoilt and indulged him and he hadn’t exactly been happy to be left behind with their father.

‘It’s – bad,’ Hal said. ‘But not because _you’re_ bad – it’s just there’s nothing good left.’

Humphrey looked up at Hal. His face was red and blotchy and Hal remembered again, with stark clarity, the way Humphrey used to cry and cry when he was little but he always tried to be brave. How long had Humphrey been holding this inside him?

‘When Joanna comes back,’ Hal said, ‘we’ll go and eat.’

Hal brought his hand up and ruffled Humphrey’s hair. The gesture felt stiff, his fingers unused to the movement that he had a made a thousand times during his own childhood, but Humphrey still looked up at him and smiled.

*

It was the anniversary of Richard’s death. Hal had remembered to add a special prayer for him in his usual prayers at the masses he attended but the day had slipped past with nothing to do but look at Henry’s wheezing body and think of all the things that should be different. It hadn’t felt right or possible to conjure Richard in his head and to imagine what Richard would say to him if he was still alive. It was the thirteenth year. Too much had changed. And his father was dying.

It wasn’t until evening had fallen and he’d gone back to his room, ostensibly to sleep, that he had let himself really feel the loss. For nearly a year, he had been the happiest he had been since his mother died and had felt as though he knew, at long last, what it was like to have a father that loved him. Then it had been over and he was told that Richard _deserved_ to be deposed and, ultimately, to die.

Once, he had read everything he could find on Richard’s deposition. He hadn’t been able to recognise the Richard he had known in it and could not work out whether it was because the words were a lie or, worse, because Richard had fooled him. Hal had thought about asking someone but there was no one he could think of that would know the truth and give answers he would trust. Maybe Richard hadn’t loved him after all but had pretended to for some game he hadn’t been able to see through to the end.

Hal wouldn’t have blamed him. There was a flaw in him that had cracked and crazed his heart. Henry had taught him that. Hal wondered what people would say about him, in time, when he was dead and mouldering. He wondered how long it would take them to begin plotting his deposition.

*

Hal heard the door opening and lifted his head. Courtenay. He raised his hand in greeting and went back to studying his hose-covered feet, propped up on the desk next to the pile of books with jewel-bright covers. Courtenay came and sat next to them, ran his finger down the sole of Hal’s foot. Hal dropped his feet down, pushed them back into his boots.

‘Richard was a sodomite,’ Hal said.

Courtenay’s jaw flexed. ‘I’m reasonably sure I still am.’

‘Not you,’ Hal said. ‘King Richard.’

‘Ah,’ Courtenay said.

‘And before him, the second Edward.’

‘Yes,’ Courtenay said. ‘Is going anywhere?’

‘I don’t want a hot spit thrust up my fundament.’

Courtenay blinked at him. ‘I doubt anyone would. Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

Hal shrugged, let his head loll back and stared up the ceiling. It was too dark to make out much of it but he let his eyes rest there.

‘When I am king,’ he said, ‘everything I do will be scrutinised. I will have to be – _perfect._ ’

He spat the word out and he could still taste its foulness on his tongue. He shuddered and rocked forward. He wished he didn’t have to speak, he wished Courtenay would take him in his arms. He wished it was fourteen years ago and he knew what his father was doing. Wished he had sickened instead of Buckingham or that Huntington had slit his throat. He could not comprehend why Henry had let him live for so long, even when Hal had placed a dagger in his hands and begged him to take his life.

‘Yes.’

‘But I’m not perfect,’ Hal said. ‘And I don’t know how to be perfect.’

‘Do you think,’ Courtenay said slowly, ‘that there has ever been a king that’s perfect? All of them have been men, flawed as men always are. If they seem to be a perfect king, it comes from their ability and skill in performing the role. Ability _you_ have, Hal.’

Hal shook his head. ‘But it’s more than that – it’s not just about being clever or good with money.’

‘I never said it was,’ Courtenay said. He reached out and laid his hand on the back of Hal’s head. It was warm and comforting. ‘And I never said that was all you were, either. You have a talent, I think, at becoming whatever it is men need you to be.’

‘That’s just it,’ Hal said. ‘To be a good king, to be whatever it is men need me to be – I fear I will lose parts of myself. Maybe even all of myself.’

Courtenay was quiet for a long moment, his fingers kneading Hal’s scalp. Hal wished he could see his face, wished he could take back his words.

‘This is what you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it?’ Courtenay said.

‘Yes.’

‘Right, well,’ Courtenay said. ‘I understand now.’

Hal waited but Courtenay didn’t speak again. He raised his head, feeling Courtenay’s hand slipping down to his shoulder, and found Courtenay staring to one side, his face shadowed and contemplative.

‘What do you think? Am I mad?’

‘I don’t know,’ Courtenay said. ‘I don’t think so. I think the crown will change you – it can hardly not change a man – but what will it take from you? Will it carve swathes off you? Will it give as much as it takes? Will it devour you? I don’t know.’

‘You always know everything.’

Courtenay’s smile was stiff. ‘I just pretend I do.’

Hal closed his eyes. ‘I don’t know what I should do, if I should fight it – but then I remember the old king and – I think surrender is best. I feel as though I’m trapped in a snare and if I fight, it will kill me.’

‘Then don’t fight,’ Courtenay said. He sounded panicked and when Hal looked at him, his face was pale and worried. ‘Don’t. Keep hold of yourself, your true self and what lies deep in your heart – remember it and guard it most fiercely. And – I will be with you, at your right hand, to remind you of what you are, beneath the crown.’

Hal smiled. It was what he wanted to hear, he supposed – the promise that whatever happened, Courtenay would remain with him and keep him true to himself. Keep him from bleeding out and dying beneath the kiss of gold and jewels. But it wasn’t anything he could let Courtenay give him.

‘And what if I sent you away to make us both safe? So that you are not my Gaveston or Despenser or de Vere?’

‘But I am not those men,’ Courtenay said. ‘I am only myself.’

His hands cupped Hal’s jaw, lifted his face.

‘You are above all things to me,’ Courtenay said.

Hal stared at him. Courtenay’s face was grave and still, his quick, green eyes focused steadily on Hal. It was clear he meant his words and they were terrifying. The weight of them was heavy, filled with an unconditional, trusting and unwise love. It was as though Courtenay had pressed his beating heart into Hal’s hands and told him to do whatever he wanted to it.

‘The risk is too great,’ Hal said. ‘They died. Horribly. I couldn’t live if that happened to you. And their deaths weren’t enough to save their kings.’

He thought of de Vere bleeding out in France and Despenser subjected to the full rigours of a traitor’s death. He thought of Gaveston’s body left to rot where it fell. He thought of Edward II and the spit and shuddered. He thought of Richard, locked away at Pontefract and starving, knowing all the while that just outside was the hill where, nearly eighty years before, the Earl of Lancaster had been murdered in revenge for Gaveston’s death.

‘No,’ Courtenay said and bowed his head. ‘But we are not them. We are not destined to meet the same fate.’ He paused, reached out and held Hal’s hand. ‘Give me titles and posts my skills and birth qualify me for, nothing more. Don’t favour me above all else, even to spite Arundel. But don’t send me away.’

Hal hadn’t expected Courtenay to argue with such grace.

‘I do love you,’ he said, ‘I do. It’s not that I don’t.’

‘I know,’ Courtenay said. ‘But you’re frightened. It’s not unreasonable.’

‘No,’ Hal said. ‘It seems very reasonable.’

Courtenay gave a half-shrug. He took Hal’s hands and turned them so the palms faced upwards, pale and vulnerable. Hal studied them, the callouses on his fingers, the ink stain on his thumb. Courtenay ran a finger over them, tracing the lines.

‘Don’t send me away,’ he said. ‘You will break both our hearts if you do.’

‘I know.’

‘If we stop – stop being lovers and go on as friends and companions, then – what danger is there?’

Hal raised his head and studied Courtenay. His face was as fair as it had always been, though it was older and had lost the perfect clarity of youth. They were no longer boys just beginning to find their way in the world but men. He wondered how much more their faces would change in the years to come.

‘I don’t think I could ever bear to send you away,’ he said and it sounded too tender but that was alright. There was only the two of them there.

*

Hal had only just started his supper when a page came, summoning him to Henry’s bedside. The doctors thought that Henry might die that night and Hal should come. He told Courtenay not to wait for his return and left. The food he had eaten sat heavily in his stomach, threatened to crawl back up his throat. He wasn’t ready for this.

It was a long night. Both Joanna and Humphrey were there and they sat in silence, listening to Henry’s wheezing breath. The room was dark with only one candle and the fire burning, and Hal felt as if time was holding still and the night would never end. They prayed for a time, their beads clacking over their fingers and their mouths barely whispering the words, and then they seemed to stop and listen. Humphrey fell asleep, his head cushioned his arms, and Joanna slept not long after him. Hal wanted to sleep too but he could stop his mind, could not relax or get comfortable.

He stood, picked up the candle and walked the perimeter of the room. He stopped by the table with its potions and ointments, ran his fingers over the bottles and pots and wondered what was inside each one. Wondered if any would cure him. He kept walking.

He made a study of the bookshelves, recognising some of the books from memory alone. Some had been on his father’s shelves for as long as he could remember, others he had seen in Richard’s hands or had been in his grandfather’s library. There were, of course, many that he had seen Humphrey reading and a few that Hal had gifted to Henry before. There was only one he could remember his mother holding, a slim copy of _Revelations of Divine Love._

She had used to read selections from it to them and he had tried to take comfort in the promise that _all manner of things would be well_ but even as a child he had found it hard to believe. It was only in heaven that all was well and you had to be very good to get into heaven. He thought about taking it out to read, wondered if it was possible to conjure his mother’s voice from the words and imbibe something of her by touching the leather she had once touched.

‘Harry.’

Hal went still. Henry’s voice, quiet and strained but clearly audible. He heard his father swallow, his throat clicking, and a log in the hearth crack. Hal turned around slowly and approached the bed. Henry’s eyes were open, fixed on him.

‘Father?’ he said.

Henry’s throat worked, his eyes did not blink. Hal reached out, let his hand hover over his father’s, not daring to touch.

‘Forgive me,’ Henry said.

‘What for?’

Hal wanted Henry to say it without excuse and protestation. He wanted to hear his father say he was sorry that he had deposed and killed Richard whether by grief or murder, that he had been too hasty in sending Hal’s sisters off to foreign courts to marry, that he had been unwise with money and left the defences chronically short of funds. He wanted Henry to admit to being a poor father, that he had considered Hal’s life worth less than the duchy of Lancaster and that he had left Hal to die after Shrewsbury. He wanted Henry to say he was sorry Blanche was dead and Mary was dead and he had played a part in their deaths.

Henry didn’t answer. His throat worked again and a tear dripped down from his eye, ran across his cheek. He was still staring at Hal. Hal got the distinct impression that Henry was not seeing him but someone else, and it was that person, not Hal, whose forgiveness Henry really wanted. Henry turned his head on the pillow, made a noise that might be a sigh or a word.

Hal waited but Henry did not move or speak again though he kept breathing.

*

When Hal went back to his room, Courtenay was still there and Henry was still alive, the immediate threat passed. Hal was tired, his body aching and he lay flat on his bed without bothering to undress, crawl under the covers or pull the hangings closed. The light was cold and silvery but soon, Hal suspected, it would brighten.

‘Will you stay?’ Hal said.

‘If that’s what you want,’ Courtenay said.

‘It is.’

Courtenay kissed his forehead, drew the hangings closed and lay down beside Hal. His face, in the dim light, was beautiful and calm. Hal reached out, traced his cheekbone with a finger.

‘Why do you love me?’

‘I don’t know if I can explain it,’ Courtenay said. ‘I’ve never tried to work it out _._ Perhaps love has no reason or needs none.’

‘And so there no reason that you love me?’ Hal said and hated that his voice sounded so plaintive.

‘It is a fact of my existence, going on forever,’ Courtenay said. ‘I don’t look at you and see all the things that I think are good and admirable, weigh them against the things that worry or distress me. I see you, the entirety of you, and love you. Your sweetness and your temper, your strengths and weaknesses, your moods. I love your face, your hands, your scars, your voice, your eyes. Everything that you are and were and will be – I love.’

‘But it’s not, I’m not…’ Hal said. He frowned. ‘You don’t love me in a way I understand.’

Courtenay leant in close, his breath warm against Hal’s lips. ‘What don’t you understand?’

‘Everything,’ Hal said. ‘My brothers love me because we are kin, my mother because she bore me, my grandfather because I was smart, my men because I do what’s best by them. You – you love me because I’m me.’

‘Yes,’ Courtenay said.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh Hal,’ Courtenay said and cradled Hal’s face between his hands. ‘Does that matter when you know it’s true?’

Hal closed his eyes and tried to think. He thought of Henry, who had never loved him, dying slowly, and his mother who told him that her love for him was worth emptying oceans for. He thought of Humphrey turning to him for comfort, John’s quiet loyalty and steadfastness, Thomas’s aggressive affection, Blanche clinging to his hand in the Tower and how alike he and Philippa were and how he had never realised until she was leaving. He thought of Courtenay, lying beside him and loving him without reason or care. And then he thought of himself and how he loved them all, even when it hurt or didn’t make sense, and how he saw them as they were and that didn’t alter or change his love for them at all.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t.’

**Author's Note:**

>  **Greenwich.** Henry's whereabouts in February are unknown until moved to Westminster on 21 February except that he was at Greenwich on February 5 so I assumed he remained there until the 21st.
> 
>  **He’d been ill for years but now, everyone was reasonably sure, he was actually dying.** In 1405 Henry's health collapsed and never completely recovered. 615 years on, it just isn't possible to diagnose him accurately. He seems to have suffered a skin condition (almost certainly not leprosy) and another disease that came in "fits", which may have been a cardiovascular condition. The best discussion of Henry's health is found in Peter McNiven's 1985 article, "The Problem of Henry IV's Health, 1405-1413" in _The English Historical Review_ (vol. 100, no. 397).
> 
>  **Yes, it was a pity Thomas was in France. Yes, it was a pity that Henry didn’t make it to Jerusalem again.** Thomas, Henry's second and probably favourite son, was in France on Henry's orders to aid the Armagnacs in the Armagnac-Burgundian civil war. This was a point of contention between Henry and Hal, who had previously been negotiating with Burgundy. Henry's third son, John, was in northern England. Henry travelled to Jerusalem in 1393 and indicated on several occasions his desire to return there.
> 
>  **‘When I was eight I was very sick...’** In 1395, the year after the death of his mother, Hal was sick enough that a doctor was summoned from London to Leicester to treat him. At that time, he seems to have been living in his grandfather's household but nothing else is known.
> 
>  **...if Henry had allowed Humphrey to have some measure of both independence and responsibility...** Out of Henry's four sons, Humphrey alone wasn't given any titles, responsibilities or much in the way of independence during Henry IV's lifetime and is often found residing with Henry. It isn't clear why this was. Previously, it was thought Henry intended Humphrey to enter the clergy and that he studied at Oxford during his adolescence but there is no evidence for this. 
> 
> **It was the anniversary of Richard’s death.** Richard II died around 14 February 1400. The most accepted cause of death was that his gaolers had starved him to death under Henry's orders though the official story was that he died from grief at the failed Epiphany Rising. 
> 
> **‘Richard was a sodomite ... and before him, the second Edward.’** Richard II and Edward II were both accused of sodomy in their reigns, most notably with their favourites Robert de Vere (Richard) and Piers Gaveston and Hugh Despenser the Younger (Edward). Gaveston and Despenser were executed in uprisings designed to "protect" the king from their "bad advice". De Vere escaped the same fate by fleeing into exile where he died from injuries sustained in a boar hunt. In revenge for Gaveston's death, Edward had Thomas, Earl of Lancaster executed in much the same way at Pontefract, where Richard II would later be imprisoned and die. Although the hot poker story is almost certainly false, by Hal's lifetime it was the accepted story of Edward II's death.
> 
>  **He wished it was fourteen years ago and he knew what his father was doing. Wished he had sickened instead of Buckingham or that Huntington had slit his throat...** 14 years ago, Henry returned unlawfully from exile and deposed Richard, who had Hal with him. Buckingham - the only son of Thomas of Woodstock and Eleanor de Bohun - was left with Hal in Ireland and died while returning to England. Huntington was one of the ringleaders of the Epiphany Rising, which may have contained a plot to kill Henry's four sons. The dagger incident is the subject of my fic [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24055540%22).
> 
>  **...that he had been too hasty in sending Hal’s sisters off to foreign courts to marry.** Blanche, aged 10, married the King of Germany's son (later Louis III, Elector Palatine) in 1402 and Philippa, aged 12, married Eric of Pomerania in 1406. Hal's dislike of their marriage stems from (IMO) Blanche becoming pregnant when she was just 13. Henry was probably far from happy about that too.
> 
>  **He wanted Henry to admit to being a poor father...** These grievances are, more or less, real but Hal's perspective is skewed by his youth and trauma. Henry did return from exile while Hal was with Richard and it is usually assumed that Richard would have been within his rights to treat Hal as a hostage (he didn't and Henry probably knew he wouldn't). Hal recovered from his Shrewsbury injury that nearly killed him at Kenilworth and Henry doesn't appear to have visited him there.
> 
>  **He wanted Henry to say he was sorry Blanche was dead and Mary was dead.** Blanche died on 22 May 1409 from a fever, pregnant with her second child, and only 17. Mary died June/July 1394 after giving birth to Philippa. Henry isn't really to blame for this but IMO, it's plausible Hal would partly blame him.


End file.
